


Into the Forest

by PaintedGlass



Category: Labyrinth (1986)
Genre: Camping, F/M, Hide and Seek, Slightly dark jareth, Smut, Wilderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-24
Updated: 2019-08-30
Packaged: 2020-09-25 19:24:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20376844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaintedGlass/pseuds/PaintedGlass
Summary: An offering of fruit. A circle of salt. A piece of iron. Are they enough to keep her safe from him? There's only one way to find out. Sarah takes a little camping trip and invites an old enemy to join her.





	1. Off the trail

**Author's Note:**

> My contribution to LFFL's Summer Campout challenge (of course, I had to go and make a fun little camping story take a weird turn). Prompt words used: flashlight, forest, lake, moon/stars, campfire, marshmallows, hiking/walking. Jareth is a little morally dubious in this story, but try not to take it too seriously. No non-con, as always, but things do get a little rough.

Never leave a trace. As she sits before the dancing flames, the thought stirs a smile, and the rose-tinted memories to go along with it. Before the divorce, before the arrival of the stepmother who had turned out to be not so much evil as she was meddlesome, there was only Mom and Dad and little Sarah, and their biannual camping trips. Just the three of them, out in the woods, hiking away the days and tucked up warm in their sleeping bags through the nights. She remembers Robert's proud smile as he showed her how to bait a fishing pole and cook hot dogs over a camp fire, and Linda's infinite patience as she taught her how girls pee outdoors, and the surprising fact that not all bugs were 'icky'. Most of all, though, they taught her never to let her actions spoil the beautiful places she so loved – not to leave behind her empty bottles or cans, or even a single crumb as a reminder of her presence. It's a principle she tries to live by even now, long after those childhood trips have come to an end.

A blue paisley daypack sits by her feet, and she checks its straps are secure before she settles back on her rock, making sure nothing can tumble out. It's filled with the essentials: a little food and water; her father's old and well-loved fire starter, and the inevitable pack of back-up matches; a flashlight and compass to help her back home, and a blanket to keep her warm while she works up the courage to do what she has come here for. The camp fire she has built for herself probably isn't as sturdy as the ones her father used to make, nor is it strictly legal so far out here in the forest, but said father isn't exactly around to complain. No one is around, least of all her family – a fact she has walked miles to make absolutely certain of. There's no way in hell she's risking the souls and minds of any other unfortunate campers for this.

Grim determination has seen her off the trail and off out into nature alone, pushing on through the tall grasses and shrubs into a small, empty clearing, where the air is fresh and green, and the trees tower tall and ancient enough to hint at their own secret magic. There, she sits and waits as the pale golden sky rusts and bruises a deep purple, then finally darkens into black. The evening breeze slips around her shoulders, stealing inside her thin jacket, and she leans in a little closer to her fire. Somehow, she doubts a little night air is responsible for all of her shivers. While she gathers up her nerve, she toasts a single puffy white marshmallow over the fire and, perhaps in tribute to those fond childhood memories and the good old days, assembles it into a huge sticky s'more. She chews on the sickly treat as she looks into the fire, sucking a stray smear of chocolate from her thumb, and wonders, perhaps a little too late, if she's just sweetening herself up for him.

A less pleasant memory has followed her out of her childhood – one that, even now, often plagues her days and darkens her nights. The barn owl that keeps vigil outside her bedroom window, with its pale face and dark, watchful eyes, serves as a constant reminder of that one fateful evening she made a foolish wish, and almost lost everything. It has been years since that night, since her time in the labyrinth, and yet she still has not managed to leave the strange world she visited – or, indeed, its keeper – behind. She hasn't called upon the wicked Goblin King since that one night, remembering all too well the cruelty and malice that lurks behind his roguish charm, but it seems that he, too, has never quite managed to forget the girl who once denied him.

He doesn't visit her every night, but he appears often enough to vex her anew, and to tempt her towards weakness. The more she sees of him, the more she remembers of the man who once turned her world upside down, and the more she fears him. At barely twenty-two, she's far too young to be spending most of her nights hidden behind drawn curtains and closed doors, always afraid of what the next evening might bring – or what it might bring her to do. She's too young to be as dissatisfied with her life as she is, but not so naïve as to be able to deny what it is her body yearns for. Denial isn't saving her from her current predicament, and so she has gone searching for other methods. The consequences of opening that one little red book should have been enough to put her off reading for life, but between the pages of another, thicker tome, she has found what she hopes will be her salvation. If he can be summoned, then surely he can be banished for good as well. She won't let herself think of what comes after.

At the very edge of the clearing, almost untouched by the fire's warm glow, there sits a smooth, flat stone. On it rests a single, ripe peach, as an offering. Twenty feet of dry earth, a thin circle of salt, and the crackling heat of her campfire lie between her and it. The empty container of table salt has been carefully stowed away in her pack, along with the rest of her trash, now that it has served its purpose to provide a little extra protection. The cast iron poker currently clenched within her right fist is a little more savage form of self-defence; she likes the heft of it in her hand, and the force a single swing can deliver, even if the metal itself does little to repel the ethereal king of the goblins. She has done all she can to keep herself safe from harm, out here far from civilisation in the neutral space between both of their worlds, where she knows only he will follow her.

Finally, she makes her move. Finally, she speaks his name.

The barn owl severs through the deep shadows and swoops in, shedding its wings and gaining the familiar length and breadth of a man as it nears. “Hello, Sarah,” he says.

He's just as imposing as she remembers him, even steeped in shadow, dark and forbidding in his heavy cape and all that clinging leather. It has been so long since she last saw him like this, but he doesn't seem to have aged a day, hardly a line to mar the fine contours of his face. His past defeat has not robbed him of his pride nor his ego: she can see it in his cocksure stance and tilt of his head; the slight curl of his mouth and arrogant arch of his brow as he awaits her response. His stark beauty combined with the shock of his presence is like a double blow to her stomach, leaving her breathless and light-headed, no longer so sure of herself as she was only minutes ago.

It's what he wants, she knows; to claw back even a scrap of the power she once denied him, he _needs_ her to fear him. It's what he has wanted all along, working towards his own twisted goal with every unwanted visit he has paid her in his owl form – and tonight, she decides as she tightens her grip on her makeshift weapon, the fucker isn't getting what he has so obviously come for. She doesn't stand on ceremony, or at all for him; she only stares into those mismatched blue eyes which have haunted her for so long.

“Brave girl,” he says, seemingly unphased by her rudeness. He smiles wide enough for her to see the points of his teeth. Her heart is in her mouth as he moves closer. This will work. It has to. “Out here all alone, while your family are tucked up safe in their beds, I imagine.” He comes to a halt perhaps a foot from where the line she has drawn begins without a downward glance, as though he is the one to choose the distance. She has managed to keep him out, but she doesn't know for how long.

She has played out this meeting so many times in her mind, that the words come to her easily. “What do you want from me?”

Of course, he won't make this easy. Of course, he sidesteps the question and goes off-script. “Skipping the foreplay, I see. I should have guessed this wasn't to be merely a social call, given your little toy there.” He nods at the poker, and she swears she feels her palm grow a little clammier around it. “As for what I want, shouldn't I be asking that same question of you instead? I've come here at your call, Sarah. I can only guess at what you have in store for me.” His eyes shift towards the peach as an afterthought. “Fruit? How _traditional_, well done.” He doesn't care to mask the mockery in his tone. “You _have_ been doing your homework, haven't you? I'm rather curious to see what other facts you've managed to dig up on my kind. It's taken you long enough.”

He makes no move to accept the offering, prowling the perimeter of the salt circle instead – widdershins, she notices, with no real surprise. Given the way he looks at her, she can't help but wonder if he has some other gift in mind. His stride is long but the graceful steps are taken at leisure; he reminds her somewhat of a large cat, not so much stalking its prey as choosing to toy with it, first. He wants her to stand and turn to follow him, perhaps to lure her away from the fire's safety, but she isn't falling for it. As he circles her, every inch of body is on alert, tense and tingling as his regard presses heavy between her shoulder-blades. That strange tension remains with her even as he comes to stand before her again. It's clear he won't give away any more than her questions demand of him, and so she takes a moment to consider her next words.

“Why are you still following me? Why, after all this time?” Her throat works as, yet again, the unfairness of it all rings loud and strong within her brain. “I did everything by the book. I _beat_ you.”

“And you were brave, and noble, and true, and vanquished evil that day. Yes, yes.” He flaps a contemptuous hand as he parades himself before her. He never keeps still long enough for her to feel safe. Though his eyes and his attention remain on her, she can't help but feel he's looking for a way past her barrier, eyeing her up to find but a single chink in her armour. “You're old enough not to believe in fairytales now – or at least not the watered-down drivel you humans feed to your children. You're sharp enough to know things aren't quite so simple and neatly wrapped up.”

“I don't know what, exactly, I know any more.” She sets her jaw and her feet in the dirt, bolt upright on her little rock as she squeezes the poker's solid handle in her fist. “All I know is that you have no power over me.”

He positively beams at her. “So you say. I've adhered to those constraints you set in place, have I not? I've _behaved_, unable to call upon you in my true form unless you willed it first.”

“But you're still here. You're still …” She frowns and forces the words out. “_With_ me.”

“Yes.”

The silence drags on until she breaks it with a sigh. “_Why?_”

He pauses mid stride to look at her – _really_ look at her. “My proximity to you only matches my proximity in your mind.” She sees the flash of his teeth as he grins. “You may not like it, love, but I'm never far from your thoughts. My kingdom … myself … You may have run from both, Sarah, but never far. You've never really left us behind. You may have been stubborn enough to deny it, but even back then, I think you knew where you belonged, didn't you?”

Her eyes on his, she lets her free hand drop from its skittish perch in her lap. Reaching down, she pushes her fingers into the ground below. The loose dirt gives way easily, grit catching beneath her nails as she gathers up a handful. She raises her hand high and opens her palm for him to see as the dusty earth runs through her fingers. “I _belong_ to this land – this world. I will never, _ever_ be ruled by you, and how dare you ever think I could?”

He smiles and inclines his head. “You called me here after all this time just to inform me of that? Dear Sarah, if I'm still rooted deeply enough inside your sweet head to rouse such indignation after so many years, then I already _own_ a part of you. So, back to the matter at hand: why have you summoned me? What can be worth all this effort, hmm? What can it be that you want from me still, after all these years? Is it the offer of your dreams fulfilled? Is it, perhaps, riches, or land, or the chance to rid yourself of another screaming brat once and for all?” His smile darkens, his rich voice sinking a tone lower. “Is it pleasure?”

Her eyes dart away from his at the insinuation – but not fast enough to miss his smirk. If his words are true, he has felt for himself just how often he is in her guiltiest of thoughts – how often she has longed for him, in spite of her best efforts. He has seen that longing grow and change. Worst of all, on the many nights he has perched outside her window, he has seen all of her pitiful efforts to replace him. He has seen her shame, her string of blond-haired men, each of them tall and lithe, but never quite the same, and never around for long.

Thanks to him, it can definitely be said that she has a type when it comes to the lovers she chooses, but none of them have come close to the real thing. She wants the man who got to her first – the one tainted her for all others; the one who roused longing in her way back before she understood what true desire was. It's not enough to have romance, or mutual attraction, or even just full on, shameless lust when it comes to her potential partners. She needs the thrill and excitement, that battle of wit and wills; the challenge of having someone who terrifies her almost as much as he arouses her. She wants the otherworldly and forbidden, but even now, she still doesn't quite dare to ask for it. There's no fear he might deny her a place in his arms and his bed, but she's petrified of what just one taste of him might do to her. _This_ man won't just slink away into the night once she has granted him rights to share her bed.

It's a can of worms she has never had the courage to open, but as with any unhealthy craving, the urge to indulge only grows more powerful the longer she denies herself. It makes sense now: that glimpse of pale wings and accusing eyes whenever she brings a man home, only to look into his eyes and think 'not _him_'. She's as guilty as he is when it comes to letting this obsession drag on, and he'll never let her deny it. By keeping himself in her periphery, by never quite allowing her to forget about him, there's no chance of her ever going cold turkey. He's here to stay, and one way or another, she has to deal with that fact. His pompous chuckle makes the fine hairs at the base of her skull prickle.

“Does the answer embarrass you, Sarah? You needn't _hide_ from me – not when you've finally been so brave as to speak my name after all this time. I can make it easier for you, if you like, and if you'd care to rid of us these last few flimsy barriers.” The tip of one leather boot comes down a menacing inch from the salt, but still he toes the line. “Let me in, Sarah. Let me in, after you've languished alone for so very long, and let me take care of you. All you have to do is allow it, just this once, and you'll never have to do such a daunting thing again. You know I can give you whatever it is you seek.”

She's almost tempted to give in – to admit what he already must suspect. It makes her shudder to think just how often she has wished the weight of such an impossible choice could be lifted from her hands. How much easier this would be if there was no decision to be made. “Why don't we talk about what you've been seeking all this time, huh? Why you keep on coming back to poke your beak into my life even when you don't have to. Do you do that for everyone who happens to think of you from time to time, or is it just me?” His silence gives her strength. “It is, isn't it? It's only for me. You've never been able to forget it either, have you? You've been obsessed with me all this time. At first, you wanted my brother for your own, but by the time I came to you – _defeated_ you – it was me you wanted instead, wasn't it?”

He allows an almost agreeable smile. “Our desires can change, Sarah.” His eyes rake fire and ice over her body. “As can we. I'll admit, you had promise as a child – your strength of mind and spirit, and perhaps even heart, if we're wallowing in clichés. You would have made a fine addition to my citizenry. Now, I believe perhaps you have even more to offer – and I think, my dear, sweet Sarah, that you know it, too.”

She grits her teeth. “All I want is to be left alone.”

“Until the next time you think of me, of course.”

“The next time I'm stupid enough to think of you, I'm happy to beat myself in the head hard enough for me to _stop_ thinking of you.”

This time, his smile looks almost pitying, though she doubts he's capable of the emotion. “Do spare us both the hyperbole and lies. You'd do well to remember that, although the time I waste here is of no consequence to me, my patience is far from infinite. This obstinacy of yours has dragged on long enough – years too long – but make no mistake, I always get what I desire in the end. If I want you for my own, Sarah – and, believe me, I do – then you can guarantee I'll have you.”

Her scoff sounds small and weak in the night. “Yeah, well you'll have to catch me first.”

It's not a Freudian slip; it's a goddamn cataclysmic tumble. She realises her mistake at once, but it's already far too late. All her best efforts, all of her careful planning has been for nothing. Words are such tricksy things, but he is perhaps the most devious of all. His smile is exhuberant and immediate.

“Done.”

She shakes her head. “No, that isn't-”

“-what you meant? Of course not.” Victory is already written in his cold blue eyes. “And yet it's what you said.”

She swallows down the sudden urge to scream. “Don't make me do this.”

“Make you?” Nothing boils her blood more than when he is laughing at her. “I can't _make_ you do anything, Sarah, you know that. All this … It's of your own accord.”

He's right, loath as she is to admit it, and yet with the air so charged between them, the sparks that fly when his gaze clashes with hers, she knows how eager he is for the chase. He can't peer into the recesses of her mind, where far darker scenarios than this play out with some regularity, but she's sure he has his own twisted fantasies in which he pursues her. In those fantasies, escape is never an option – and why should it be now? The offer she has extended him is incontestable – _catch me_ – and their bargain has been made. He knows he can have her now, and no matter where she goes, no matter how fast she runs, he will never stop trying.

She knows she could at least try to wait him out in the safety of her camp, cowering within her circle of salt, but the little food she has will last her far longer than the water will, and he has waited years for her already. This time, despite his former warnings, there is no turning back. The fear of having him stalk and catch her beyond this night, keeping her running and always on her guard, is nothing compared to the sick, seductive terror of allowing him to pursue her, to _have_ her however he chooses, right here and now. She has surrendered all of herself, and it feels freeing; for better or for worse, this is in his hands now. Evil – for she's certain at least a part of him is – has won out over good, but she still has her pride, and the determination that he will not take that, too, from her without a fight. She won't let him win easily.

“Okay,” she says at last, both horrified and relieved that this game they have played for too long ends tonight. “I'm ready.”

The declaration makes him smile. “Are you, now? As hotheaded as always, I see, so eager to rush into the unknown.”

“You say that like I have some other choice.”

“A choice, perhaps not, but a chance, maybe.” The left corner of his mouth hitches just a fraction higher than the right. “I'm not entirely opposed to giving you a head start.”

Her jaw tightens. “What, are you going to cover your eyes and count?”

The slight incline of his head is as indulgent as it is infuriating. “If such a fanciful thing would please you. This is your proposal, after all. I'm even willing to claim my reward the good old-fashioned way: no magic. Shall we say five minutes?”

“Make it ten,” she responds at once.

He laughs as he shrugs off his cloak. The dark fabric slips from his fingers and dissolves into smoke and shadow. “You're not hoping to find some place safe to hide from me, are you, sweetness? Ten _years_ wouldn't be enough.”

She takes a moment to look him over – nothing more than a brief flick of her eyes. The tooled leather jerkin he wears will surely weigh him down, his form-fitting leggings and tall boots speaking of style rather than function, but she knows such trivialities won't truly hold him back – not when he finally has her at his mercy. At least in her hiking boots and lightweight jacket, she'll be able to make him work to earn his prize. “Ten minutes,” she says again.

Heart pounding, she stands up to sweeten the deal, letting him see all of her, letting him see the smooth swing of her arm as she casts the poker aside. She can't cling to such a crude weapon forever – not in her sleep; not when she has unwittingly granted him a lifetime, if he so wishes, in which to pursue her. All that's left for her is to flee from him.

He cedes to her request with a smile. “As you wish. Let it not be said that I'm an uncharitable man.” The reminder makes her scowl. Long ago, he once informed her of his generosity. With the rest of her life in his hands, her capture assured, he can well afford an extra few measly minutes. “You have ten minutes, Sarah, now use them. _Run_.”


	2. Amongst the trees

She does.

Her feet are flying from the moment they leave behind the safety of her circle, certain that, at any moment, the Goblin King will betray whatever dubious moral code he adheres to in favour of catching her that bit sooner. He won't, of course – his spoken bond is enough to assure that – but knowing it still does not slow her pounding heart. She has seen his scheming smile, and the dark delight which lit his eyes as he urged her to flee from him. She knows he will savour the hunt almost as much as he will enjoy his trophy.

With every step, she can feel his words and his will coil tighter around her. Run. _Run_. She wants to come to a halt, to wait him out in defiance without giving him the satisfaction of the chase, but the urge to go on, to never, ever, give in, is far stronger. She _has_ to run. Sheer stubbornness might just keep her running forever, she thinks, until a vicious stitch in her right side brings her up short. While she pauses to recover, she can hear him in her every gasping breath, and feel his touch in the fingers that slide beneath her clothing to rub at the sudden ache. Of all the arcane rituals she has rehearsed, all the necessary precautions she has taken, she can't help but mourn that a strict daily cardio routine wasn't among them. Already, she imagines he can feel her failure. His voice echoes inside her mind as he describes to her, in lurid detail, just how much he's going to enjoy the taking. It shocks her to realise she can no longer differentiate his wicked thoughts from her own. When she takes off again, her pace no longer seems quite so steady.

She runs until the cool night air sears her lungs, always moving, always wondering if her next lunging stride will be the one to send her boot slipping out from underneath her, or if the next jutting tree root she stumbles over will be the one to snap her ankle. She runs without the warm, reassuring glow of her flashlight, long forgotten in her pack, with only the cold moon and stars above to guide her way. Cruel branches snatch at her hair and clothing, and whip at her skin, but they don't slow her down. She has no destination in mind, only speed as she strives to put as much distance as possible between herself and the man who intends to claim her. It feels like both an eternity and like no time at all has passed before she realises she is no longer running alone.

No sooner has she sensed him than her stomach has tied itself up in knots. She pushes herself even harder, but at any moment she expects to feel his warm breath on her neck, his firm body against hers as he forces her down to the filthy ground. There's a shameful pulse between her legs, strong and irrefutable, and it seems to have synced up with the frantic thrumming of her heart. It's pretty easy to wonder, as she tries and fails to ignore that new sensation, if she's just as twisted as the man who's chasing her. All answers seem to point to yes as she finally comes to a halt, resting her hands and her damp forehead against the trunk of a nearby tree as she gets her breath back. The rough bark scratches her palms, and she finds her hands moving of their own accord, stroking at the uneven surface of the wood as she imagines what it would feel like to have her entire body pressed up against it.

“You're fucking disgusting,” she hisses to herself, and means it. For someone who came here looking for answers and freedom from the man who has spent years taking up valuable space inside her head, she doesn't seem too devastated by this new turn of events. A brief glance at her watch tells her it has been almost forty-five minutes since she left camp, less than an _hour_ since she began to run from him, and yet her body at least seems far too eager to see him again. She wonders if he's keeping her waiting on purpose, pulling at her nerves and her patience until both finally snap for good.

She still hasn't let herself process the full magnitude of what she has done, living in the here and now, surviving on physical sensations alone. If she focusses only on the aches in her muscles, the sweat on her brow, and yes, even that mindless lust unfolding inside her, then she can go on evading the dawning horror that threatens to seize hold of her senses. This isn't just one night – one frenzied bout of harsh words and hate sex; when he finally comes for her, he's playing for keeps. She can't let herself think of all the freedom she has lost, nor the family and friends, nor the life she has barely yet begun to build for herself. A new life now looms, fraught with far too many possibilities, as empty of direction and detail as a blank page. The only surety she has to cling onto when it comes to that uncharted future is that it will contain him. She clings onto her tree as if it can shield her, keeping real panic at bay as she imagines being forced to kneel in every sense before the man who has made it his mission to own her. His gall only strengthens her resolve to resist.

She begins to jog again, cursing his name with every step – though never out loud, lest she give herself away. He wants her to fear him, and she supposes he has already succeeded in his quest with how afraid she is for her future. She knows she can never bring herself to love such a man, though she may be forced to obey him. Her mind starts to turn over against her will as she recalls the full vow he once made her, and at last there's a faint stirring of hope inside her as she wonders if one day, one impossible and distant day, she might truly make him her slave. If he wants her this badly, craving this possession of her maybe even more than she does, then there's every chance she might be able to use it against him. One day, she thinks as her heart beats eager and wild within her chest, she might just have a king at her mercy.

A careless stumble over the uneven ground brings her premature victory celebrations to an end. For the first time in god knows how many minutes, she finally comes out from inside her own head and is back amongst the trees. It's then that she finally realises how close he is.

As nimble as he is, as dedicated a hunter, she can still hear him coming for her. At first, it's only the faraway distant rustle of leaves and snapping of twigs, but it's enough to make her put a little more speed into her steps. Soon, though, she can hear the thudding cadence of his footfalls, just as rapid as her own as she finally caves and sets off sprinting. She doesn't need to turn her head to know he has her in his sights now. She doesn't dare. Her earlier hike has taken its toll on her sore muscles, and she has already been running for far longer than he has. Now, it's only a matter of time before he catches her.

She starts to scramble up a grassy incline, crashing through the last line of trees and a thick patch of foamflowers, and almost stops at the sudden change in scenery. Beyond the edge of the forest, the steep slope continues, and she's panting as she hauls ass up it, her legs pumping hard, knowing the sudden obstacle will either spell her defeat, or serve to put some much-needed distance between her pursuer and herself. The air she sucks in smells different here, but there's no time to question it – not with him gaining on her already as her body slows down. He's right behind her as she breasts the rise, and coming closer still as she hesitates for precious seconds to consider the only options she has. She's out of time and out of places to run as the land gives way to the dark stretch of lake that lies beyond it. There will be no hiding from him on the shoreline – no escaping him if she changes direction and gives him nothing but flat, open ground to chase her on. She can give up and give in to him, or she can adapt and press on. In the end, it's no real choice at all.

She stumbles and slides down over the damp grass towards the water's edge, her legs moving faster than her mind can guide them. She has no idea if owls can swim or not, but maybe the fucker will baulk at the idea of getting his hair wet. The absurdity of it all hits her, and all at once she's laughing, puffing and panting and _cackling_ like a goddamn hyena as she makes for the water. Even the wet slide of mud beneath her heels, the near loss of her balance doesn't dampen her mirth, and she's certain she'll still be smiling as he finally takes her down. She manages to get one boot off the shore and into the lake itself before she feels the hot rush of his breath upon her neck, and the full weight of his body collides with her back.

All the air rushes out of her as she hits the cold ground on her belly, leaving her wheezing as icy water rushes up to meet her face. It splashes into her eyes and nose, gushing past the shocked o of her lips and leaving her choking, coughing out what she can as he keeps her pinned. She hears him grunt, feels the shift of his hips as he claws his way atop her, and she wonders if he's hungry enough for victory to take her like this, heedless of the trouble she's in. Then, she feels his hand in her hair, feels the wrenching pressure on her scalp as he yanks her head back so she can breathe. She splutters and pulls in breath after deep, quavering breath, reluctant even now to show him gratitude. After all, she's of no use to him dead. This is for his benefit more than hers. She's still panting, spent from her run and her unexpected dip, but he's barely out of breath as he brings his mouth closer.

“I win,” he says, his lips warm and wet against her ear. The sinful caress of his voice causes the bottom of her stomach to drop out, and she knows he can feel the way she shivers beneath him.

“You win,” she agrees, through gritted teeth. She feels the heat of his laughter against her cheek.

“Do you truly accept that, or are you going to keep on fighting me?”

By now, her teeth are clenched together hard enough to hurt. Held down as she is, legs and arms splayed flat out on the muddy shore, the arrogant king probably doesn't believe she has any fight left in her. She's determined to prove him wrong, even if he decides to duck her head under for it. Shoving hard, she manages to arch up, giving herself just enough room to get both of her hands under herself. Before he can get too comfortable in their new position, she swivels her hips and brings her elbow up and back, catching him in the stomach hard enough to leave him winded. She bares her teeth in a grin as she hears him gasp and groan, but her satisfaction is short-lived.

“Nasty little bitch, aren't you?” he muses, before he sinks his teeth into her earlobe.

It hurts – _Christ_, it hurts, all those sharp teeth and their evil intent – but then his lips close around her tender flesh and he starts to suck and it's _worse_, sending tiny jolts of pleasure arrowing down through her body. She can feel every vindictive little stab of his canines echoing between her legs, the delicious draw of his lips and tongue pulling at her nipples as they pucker and grow taut for him. He _can't_ affect her this way – can't leave her writhing in the mud and biting back her moans just from this. Her whole body feels like it's throbbing, pulsing with need, and it's all for him. He doesn't need her to promise not to fight him – not when he can tame her as easy as this.

His fingers loosen their grip on her hair, and she allows him to roll her onto her back, if only to save herself from drowning. Thank god for the night, and how it might hide the fiery tinge she feels in her cheeks. The weight of his body as he comes down on top of her again feels oddly final. If she moves her hips she can feel the firm press of his thighs on either side of her body, his stare fixed on hers, filled with dark amusement. She's trembling, still gasping, but not too frightened to ignore the sinful heat uncoiling in her belly as he looms over her. No matter how hard she bucks and twists, or shoves at his hard chest with her hands, she can't unseat him, nor can she spur him into action. He just goes on straddling her writhing body, his head canted to one side, looking down on her as if she is the most curious thing he has ever laid eyes upon. She grunts and arches her hips, and sees the lust mounting in those striking eyes. The dripping tails of his hair leave cool droplets on her burning face. She does her best to glare up at him, but she knows he recognises the trepidation in her stare for what it is – and he _likes_ it.

“Gods, how long I've waited to hear you scream for me.”

He bares his teeth in a vicious smile, and before she has that chance to scream, his fingers curl around her throat. He squeezes hard enough for her eyes to widen in her head, but then he reaches down to pluck at the tip of her breast with his free hand, and they roll back in pleasure. When he finally loosens his grip, she's left gasping for air, but then he crushes his mouth to hers in a fierce, dizzying kiss. He kisses away her protests, kisses away the air in her lungs; he kisses her until she's no longer quite sure who started this, her feet kicking in the mud as she struggles to gain purchase, her arms wrapped around the bastard's neck. She thinks she hears herself moan as he finally pulls back. She pulls away, too, horrified at just how easy it would be to succumb.

He's as wet as she is, half in the water and half out, his pupils blown as wide and dark as the lake itself as he looks at her. Even through the soaking layers of her clothing, she can feel him, hot and hard against her belly. She sees the edge of his teeth again and braces herself for some scathing commentary on her pitiable loss and perhaps even her loose morals.

“What, precisely, do you want from me?” he asks instead.

The unexpected question manages to break whatever spell he holds over her. “Isn't that up to you now?” She manages to snarl the words up at him as she swipes water, and hair and muck from her cheeks, her chest heaving in a maelstrom of exertion and rage. Even though she scrubs at her mouth as well, it's impossible to erase the feel of him from her lips. “You've got me now, right? It's taken you fucking … fucking _years_, but you've finally got what you wanted, so what's stopping you?”

He lifts a sardonic brow. “What _I_ want, Sarah, is only that which has been given freely.”

She seriously can't believe the nerve of the man. “So you want me to _beg_ you, is that it? You want me to plead for you to take pity and let me go, even though I know you won't?”

Oh, the mockery in his smile. “Not quite.”

“Then _what_?” she seethes. “What the hell do _you_ want from _me_?” She fights the urge to snap at his gloved fingers as he brings a helpful hand to her cheek, and pushes away a clinging strand of her hair.

“I do want you to beg,” he confesses, his smile creeping wider as he does. “Though not for an escape. I want you to beg me for a different kind of release, Sarah. I want to hear you moaning and begging for what we _both_ need.”

God, how she despises him. Having her helpless, sprawled out beneath him has obviously taken its toll, and she hates him for his excitement just as much as she hates the desperate, giddy feeling that has plagued her from the moment he first gave chase. It's not enough for him just to have her body – he wants her mind as well, beaten down and broken as she pleads with him to make her his. It burns her, just how much she wants that in spite of her hatred for him – how quickly he has made her _want_ to give in. His eyes hold no pity as he waits for her surrender – for her to speak the only choice that makes any sense.

Instead, she rears up and punches him right in his smirking mouth.

She thinks she will savour that moment forever: the pain and shock widening his mismatched eyes; the sideways snap of his head as he reels with the impact. Even the hot throb that blooms in her knuckles is one she will treasure, never allowing herself to forget just how satisfying it felt to strike him, no matter what else her future holds. She feels herself smiling even as he growls and lunges for her, dragging her wrists up above her head and pinning them there. Even his wrathful snarl can't steal away that one sweet moment of justice.

“You needed _that_,” she tells him, and laughs in the face of his anger.

His expression is icy as he transfers both her wrists to one hand, keeping her immobile as he brings the other up to his face, probing the torn flesh of his bottom lip. When the dark leather that covers his thumb comes back bloody, he sneers and presses it to her mouth, smearing warmth and wetness across her parted lips. She won't let herself be marked by him in such a primitive way, and her tongue flits out without thought to chase away every last trace. In spite of his scowl, she's sure she can see a spark of reluctant admiration in his eyes. She sees he's still bleeding even as he lowers his face to hers.

“You are _mine_, Sarah, fought for and won, just as you asked for – make no mistake of it. How I make use of you now that I've got you is another matter entirely. You can pule and whine, and fight me if you must. I'll not lay a hand on you, but I _will_ have your respect. Whether you choose to while away the days in my dungeons, or by my side, or in my bed, this is in your hands, now. So I ask again: what do you want from me?”

Bitter tears prick at the back of her eyes, but she won't let him have them. She won't let him mistake her rage for fear or sadness. Her heart is pounding a mile a minute, every breath tearing itself from her lungs to fan itself against his beguiling and unforgiving face. He gives no sign he can feel her, only waiting; god, he'll wait for her to crumble _forever_, if he has to, and all at once she's had enough.

“Make it stop,” she snaps up at him. “Just make me stop wanting you like this. You know what I want – what I need. For Christ's sake, Jareth-”

The sudden force of his mouth against hers silences her, bruising her, filling her with the heat the water has stolen. Rather than the soft press of a lover, it feels like a brand. She's just as bestial in her retaliation, growling into his mouth, her teeth clashing with his and making their imprint on his cruel lips. She can taste the copper and salt of his blood more strongly now, and the last fleeting traces of chocolate, before taste is overwhelmed by far more vital senses. His mouth seems to be everywhere at once, tearing at her lips and trailing sin and sweet pain along her tender throat. He traces the firm line of her collarbone with his tongue, and presses his nose to the crook of her neck to breathe her in.

They reach for her clothing together, but he pushes her hands away as he shoves open her jacket, and seizes hold of her thin sweater. He peels the wet fabric upwards and tears the cups of her bra down, letting out a ragged sigh against her damp skin as his mouth closes around the peak of her left breast. She moans at his heat, the draw of his lips and the sting of his teeth raking over her nipple. He is not gentle in his possession of her, and she returns the favour as she hisses out his name, her nails sinking into his scalp as she urges him more firmly onto her breast. He feasts on her delicate skin like a man starved, savage in his need, uncaring whether he rouses pain or pleasure or both, and she's sickened to realise just how much that ruthless passion thrills her.

She relishes the ferocity of his stare, the rough drag of his fingertips along her damp skin. Her jeans are clinging and stubborn, heavy with water, and she hears the triumph in his low growl as he finally manages to tug them down over her thighs. He loses patience by the time he has one of her legs free, leaving the sodden denim bunched around her right calf as he turns his attention to her underwear. Those, too, are wrenched over her hips in haste, left tangled somewhere down below as anxious shivers judder through all that bared flesh. He doesn't give her time to feel the cold, lowering himself down into the wet, viscous earth to bring his warm lips to the very core of her.

The heat of his tongue as it first drags along her dripping slit causes her hips to buck, the frantic tempo of her breathing and the last of her will to break on a low, desperate moan. Her boot heels slither in the mud as she tries to arch up for more. The Goblin King groans against her and seizes hold of her hip, his free arm barred across her lower belly to keep her still. She can only submit to the hungry press of his lips and the ruthless lash of his tongue. A sharp hiss escapes her as two fingers, still wrapped in fine leather, push and twist their way up inside her. Her eyes roll back as they begin to thrust, and she feels the sultry rush of his laughter against her skin as his lips close around her throbbing clit. He nibbles and sucks at her as her high, needy cries fill the night, working her with one gloved hand until she comes, groaning, around his persistent fingers.

The stars shift and blur before her eyes as ecstasy takes hold, and she's still shuddering with release when he settles his weight between her thighs, and his forbidding face blocks them out for good. There's only him now, above her and shifting to be inside her. Damp strands of his long hair surround her face, cold and clinging against her cheek, and she seizes hold of it with both hands, dragging him down into her kiss. Their lips clash as he starts to press her open, and he swallows the shocked sound she makes as he slides himself home. It's her own pleasure she can taste on his tongue, but to him she's sure it's triumph. He tears himself from her mouth with a wicked grin, rocking back on his heels so he can better savour the sight of her utter surrender. His strict hands come to rest on her thighs, holding her open, holding her down for him as he starts to move within her.

He starts off up on his knees, looming aloof and above her in the semi-dark so that he can watch their joining. The earth she claimed to belong to is all over him now, seeping into his fine clothing and darkening the ends of his hair, streaked across his pale skin. One quick tumble in the water would see him clean again, but she knows he won't surrender his place atop her for even that long. Trust and camaraderie take time to build, and god knows the two of them have nothing but time waiting ahead of them. Next time, she swears to herself even as she moans out her need, she'll ride him hard enough to finally wipe that infernal smirk from his face. She thinks she growls again as he stoops down to taste her lips.

His kiss is as brutal as the piston of his hips, opening her, claiming her, and in some, sick way, she knows he's punishing her as well. It doesn't hurt her when he stretches her – she's much too far gone for that – but the force with which he drives into her is jarring, his every thrust one to remember, ensuring she will never forget the feel of it. The cold kiss of the lake upon her back makes a chilling contrast to the fury and heat of him inside her. Even with the steady, lapping rhythm of the water, she can hear just how wet she is – embarrassingly so – as his thrusts grow faster and harder still. There's no hiding from him now, no denying this, or indeed him, his possession complete.

“I'm going to give you everything you ever dreamed of, love,” he promises her as sweet oblivion approaches, and between his warm smile and the dark glitter within his stare, she isn't quite certain how to interpret the way it makes her shiver. “That, and far, far more.”

-

The Goblin King hums to himself as he enters the clearing. The tune is a merry one – one a thousand happy young campers have no doubt carried around their campfires – but tonight he's the only one singing as he takes care of one last piece of business in the mortal realm. So generous, he is, to clear up the last of his Sarah's messes.

With little more than a determined thought, the charred remains of her campfire are no more, and the ring of salt she has scattered shifts and melts away as the minerals return to the earth. He considers for a moment sending her backpack deeper into the wilderness, surely to one day be found, tattered and torn at by whichever hungry creature happens upon it first, but even such a grim token left behind might offer up some hope when there's none to be had. He wants it said that, without question or doubt, this world has seen its last of Sarah Williams. He slings the pack over his shoulder with a smile, and muses that his new plaything might enjoy a little reminder of her former home. The iron poker she abandoned is a trickier thing, burning him through even the thick hide of his gloves, but even so, he manages to dispose of it in the end.

All that's left is to close his eyes and take slow steps backward through time, erasing one by one every last step she has taken on her path to him. He smooths out the muddy bank that housed their first, rough coupling, and mends every torn leaf, each misplaced stone that felt the tread of her feet during her desperate sprint through the trees. By the time he's ready to withdraw to his own kingdom, still drunk on his victory and eager to enjoy more of the spoils, it's as though his sweet Sarah never dared to venture out into the forest that night at all.

Never leave a trace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I witter on about music in my stories now and then, so here's a bit more: a lot of the rougher stuff in this chapter was written with a little Depeche Mode playing, particularly Useless, if that helps set the scene at all. Hope you enjoyed :)


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